One man army of Dahar ka Balaji railway station

After an overnight stay at a cramped room in one of the cramped lodges tucked in one of the numerable narrow lanes opposite of the Jaipur Railway station, we somnolently dash to a manned ticket counter to get our tickets for the journey west towards Churu – a kind of gateway to the Thar. Even before I thrust my hand to pay the money for the tickets, one of the staff at the counter shoos me away “aaught bhaje aao”. I understand, it’s a PRS centre, where only advanced reservations can be made! But what I want is a normal journey ticket.

But why the counter is manned as early as 5:45 in the morning? I scratched my head and as I was dashing towards a general ticket counter. A sudden surge in the crowd indicated the arrival of yet another train into this busy junction. I stand at one of the four or five counters issuing general tickets, and after few minutes I realize that the queue is not moving (at all), and fearing the worst, I jumped to another queue.

The station clock now shows 5:55 hours, and we got just 10 minutes for the departure of our train. I have at least 15 people ahead of me, and the rate at which the clerk was issuing tickets, I realize it would be difficult for us to catch the train even if I jump ten places ahead in the queue. By 6.00, I gave up; I rushed to the lone shabby MG platform where the morning service to Churu was waiting for the go ahead from her masters. As I enter the dimly lit, impoverished platform, I hear the guard blowing the long whistle, and tell my two friends, “we’re travelling ticketless”. Even as I say, the train has started its 170-km long journey. We threw in our rucksacks on the moving train, and climbed in, circusing, with a cup of chai in our hands. Traveling ticketless was a no-brainer for us, as missing the train would result in missing different connections in the next five days, and we’ve resigned to the possible chance of getting fined in a far-off land.

Inside the coach, it was utter darkness as people were sleeping with the lights turned off – looked like they were sleeping now for hours. We settled near the doors, enjoying the cold breeze caressing the face – but the deep in the heart I fear for the ticketless travel. Our train continued to gather pace, and after travel alongside the BG track towards Phulera for a while, we took a right turn, even as the morning sun beginning to take a decisive impact on the darkness. I’m now eagerly looking forward to the next station – hoping against the hope of getting our tickets. Odds seemed to have staked in our favour, when our train slowed down and entered the loop line.

Even before the train came to a halt, I jumped out waking up a whole group of canine. As I began the run towards the ticket counter, for obvious reasons even the dogs started running along with me, and to my relief, they galloped ahead of me – nevertheless a scary moment. It’s a long jog really to the counter, as our coach was the second of the last coaches, and I was trying to outrun quite a few ticketless noble souls seeking tickets.

I am now at the ticket counter at the Dahar ka Balaji Railway Station, and I stand fifth in the short five men queue. When my turn came, I pushed my hand through the tiny hole in the ticket window from nowhere few more hands try to sneak in. I decide not to take my hand out. The long horn of the diminutive YDM-4 is imminent, and I have to run a long way to the reach my coach. However, the ticket clerk was casual in approach – I became restless and I started grumbling about the whole inefficiency of the lone clerk, as he continued giving tickets to the sneaking hands. After what looks like eternity, finally he hands over three tickets and the little balance to me, and the next moment, he turns 180 degree and clicks couple of knobs on the panel giving the go ahead for our train.

Even as I stand astonished, he walks out briskly to the platform with both green and red flags to exchange signal with the crew. He’s the one man army of Dahar ka Balaji railway station. Finally, the YDM-4 gladly lets out the sweet twin tone morning raga, and I rush to join my anxiously waiting friends - ending not only the precious three minutes of time at DKBJ, but also the guilt of ticketless travel.